


After the Gunfire

by clarkia (charmtion)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25115995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/clarkia
Summary: Sleeping city, starlit sky, ships moving like silent ghosts on the river. You a busy little bee buzzing through it all, run-mad by the promise of honey whispered dark and deadly into your ear through that goddamn burner phone.Mm. Honey. That ain’t him. More like the angry hive that hoards it: brooding, blistering, bursting out into the world at the slightest knock, all venom and vengeance, teasing a taste then sinking a sting.Find yourself wishing — not for the first time — that you’d never had a taste of honey, never had the chance to be run-mad by theneedfor it: sweetness, sharpness, sting — all of it.Frank tries to share with Curt’s group — then flees the meeting to find the only person he can really open up to: you. Yes,you, girlie.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Original Female Character(s), Frank Castle/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	After the Gunfire

**Author's Note:**

> > This is a sequel of sorts to my first Punisher fic [Quarter to Three](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218111), set in the immediate aftermath of the Season 1 Finale and Frank saying: “First time in as long as I can remember, I don’t have a war to fight. And, I guess, if I’m gonna be honest… I’m scared.” Enjoy! ✨

Silence after the gunfire, _this_ is what he meant.

They all look at him now in the quiet: pliant, patient, all soft eyes and slow nods, silently understanding. It’s too much. Should be soothing, calming, _cooling_ — but it’s not. It splashes at him like hot oil, sears his cheeks, pools beneath his skin till he’s up on his feet doing what he does best besides killing: fading — _running_ — like a ghost from the warm red-brick room.

Curt calling after him, but he shuts his ears to the world. Boots bounding sidewalk and starlit avenue till he’s face-to-face with the salt and smoke of the Hudson, breathing deep, blood boiling, chest heaving, fingers fumbling for the railing at the river’s edge. Finds it, grips tight; tries to ignore the hammer of his heartbeat, the ache in his belly, the sound — a shout, a groan, a whisper, a _name_ — burning like ashes on his tongue.

Frank knows what he wants — what he _needs_ — but to give voice to it now would be to admit that what he spun to all those old soldiers in that warm red-brick room wasn’t quite the truth. Well-meaning, white round its edges; but a lie all the same.

Because he _does_ have a war to fight, here, now, still, always. A war of his own making: one that treads the walls of his head — his goddamn _heart_ — every waking hour. Old and new, past and present, heartbreak and — you.

You, you, _you_.

Grief and joy, ghosts and flesh-and-blood. Guilt ripping through him like a bullet-wound: smarting, stitching its pain in deep, searing his skin, leaving it burned, bruised, the tenderest shade of crimson — same colour as the lips that whisper across it of a night, seek to stem its ache.

 _You_.

Be better if he’d died on that carousel; it’d have kept him from dragging you — again and _again_ — back into the mess that is his sorry little life. _Frank_ … as if you’re right there in front of him; he can hear the edge to your voice, see the frown dappling your brow, the stern glitter of your eyes alive as the smoke dancing across the river. Thought makes him smile despite himself, makes him put want and need above griefs and ghosts and whispered white little lies — and he weakens, digs in his pocket, punches out a number.

Squints at the water, tries not to think too much as he cuts a word — harsh as gravel ground over glass — across the soft little voice that answers his call. Hangs up whilst its echoes are still warm.

A burner phone, one well-aimed throw; he watches as the river claims it, a sweep of ebony cutting through the black city. Thinks of everything buried beneath that steady ebb and flow: guns, bodies, memories, secrets — hundreds, _thousands_ , all swept up and mixed together, one endless flow of a million little moments.

Shaky fingers, he grips at the railing to try and steady them. Wraps a fist around the iron; knuckles showing white beneath the crimson stains. His body aches, bruises pulling against his skin like the ashes of a long-dead fire: not quite white-hot, but lingering, ready to spark up again if the breeze blows just right. Night-cool air washes over him now; he closes his eyes, tries to surrender to its pull, even as the valleys of pain stitched tight across his face flare and flicker.

Frank _knows_ what he needs, adds a prayer to the plea already sent out on that burner phone half-drowned by the glossy water. A prayer — more like a name, _your_ name, breaking from his lips in a whisper. Blinks open his eyes, watches that whisper thread its way through the night air, dip and dance and drift and drown with all the others swirled like ashes in that great black ribbon of a river — one moment amongst a million, but the only one that really truly goddamn _matters_.

*

A glow on the bedside table, a voice — gravel ground over glass — scratching at your ear. A burner phone, one well-aimed word; on your feet before you’ve even blinked awake, connection cut, dialler-tone beeping in your hand. Dropped as if it’s a red-hot brand, landing with a soft bounce on the bed as you move in half a daze, sliding into shoes, pulling up a hood. Steadying yourself — fingertips gripping tight at the doorframe — for a moment, drawing a breath, trying to slow your heart as with every clatter against your ribs it seems to beat _Frank, Frank, Frank_ over and over again.

Makes you frown. Makes you feel _heavy_ , a little slack, as if a weight has just been plucked off your shoulders, a tension sliced clean, letting your body ebb its way to the ground: a puddle of half a hundred emotions — relief chief amongst them — and not much else.

 _Not much else_.

That’s a lie. Your head is full of _him_ , a hundred little moments of him — broken nose and busted hands, scorching eyes and sun-browned skin, fingertips ghosting your throat, featherlight kisses never far behind — playing over and over as you step out of your apartment, pull shut the red-painted door, skip down the steps to the street below.

 _Frank, Frank, Frank_ …

Keeps you going: that little mantra, adds its edges to the kaleidoscope of memories, moments, mussed-hair mumbly — _mmm, c’mere, baby girl_ — mornings splitting their scenes in the frenzied space behind your eyes. Cut up amongst a hundred others that aren’t half so sweet — black looks, brooding silences, blisters and burns and bruises, back turned in bed, buried in a grave of ghosts and griefs — and it’s their sharpness that gives you pause now, stops you at the street-corner.

One word and you come running. Drop it all, whether you’re in bed or behind the bar; leave pints half-poured, dreams half-dreamt — a slave to the pulse and pull of the dark thread that connects you to him. Autumn air in your lungs, heaved deep, giving clarity for one brief, burning moment. Shake your head angrily.

What is this — the hundredth time, the _thousandth_? Sleeping city, starlit sky, ships moving like silent ghosts on the river. You — _you_ — a busy little bee buzzing through it all, run-mad by the promise of honey whispered dark and deadly into your ear through that goddamn burner phone.

Mm. Honey. That ain’t him. More like the angry hive that hoards it: brooding, blistering, bursting out into the world at the slightest knock, all venom and vengeance, teasing a taste then sinking a sting. Eyes shut tight now, fingers finding a street light, fumbling to get a grip on the world when everything in it seems content to spin and swirl and sink. Find yourself wondering — not for the first time — how this whole thing even started. Find yourself wishing — mm, _definitely_ not for the first time — that you’d never had a taste of honey, never had the chance to be run-mad by the _need_ for it: sweetness, sharpness, sting — _all_ of it.

 _Goddamn you, Frank_ …

Too late. Too fucking late for wondering and wishing. Fingers snatching free of the street light, feet pounding against the pavement. Eyes catching the glitter of the river up ahead, nose full of its salt and smoke, heart flitting between your ribs, ache in your belly, a name burning like ashes on your tongue.

*

You’re there, you’re right _there_ — and suddenly he can breathe again. Heavy, crushing: the web of air that tangles like gossamer in his throat, threads plunging to his belly, wrapping round his lungs, squeezing, pulling tight, slicing through him — skin and bone and blood-beat — till it’s burning up as a gasp that damn near rips his chest clean open.

Grey yoga pants, an old hoodie he left for you to sleep in during one of his softer moments a couple months back. Hood a night-air black, pulled low over your face; sneakers a drumbeat on the concrete, flashing like stars in the moonlight. He watches from the shadows, bites his lip to try and stem the soft little sound kneading at his tongue as you pause by the railing, look this way and that, lift a hand to push back your hood.

Hair tumbling free — a waterfall of curls down your back — bright eyes catching all the flint-sparks of city lights reflecting off the river. Instinct, is that what drives your gaze straight to the shadows? Or is it the sound he makes — half-sob, half-sigh — quiet as a whisper, ebbing out over the black air, the black water, the black city and all its rush and pulse and pull? _Both_ , he decides, watching with bursting muscles ready to pounce as you push away from the trailing, narrow your eyes at the shadows.

“Frank?” you say softly, and he’s bulling toward you before he can blink. “Frankie… come here, baby.”

Realises his cheeks are wet — salt-streaks through all the bruises — as you lift your hands, cup his face between your palms, run your thumbs the lines of his rugged nose. He burrows into your touch, closes his eyes, brow twisting against your own, seeking every bit of you — warm and good and _his_ — that he can reach. You wrap him up in your arms, hands link-locked behind his back, fingertips kneading the heavy muscles of his shoulder-blades; hold him close, still — _quiet_ — till he comes alive suddenly, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling back your head, sinking his mouth on yours, drinking you deep.

Tells you in a rush between kisses — Micro, Russo, Madani, blood, bullets, new name, new plates, new cities, new states — tells you _all_ of it. Can taste salt — his tears, _yours_ now, too — on your tongue even as you smile softly against his lips, fingertips rubbing soothing circles on his nape. River at your back, but he can barely smell its smoke; his head is full of _you_ , all the scents — vanilla and thyme, washing powder, meadowsweets, something deeper, _darker_ — that make up your skin’s perfume. Goddammit, he could drink it, drown on it, drag himself through hell just to catch a hint of it.

Realises he’s still grumbling on when your fingertips press against his lips. “David said you never made it to dinner.”

“Told him I couldn’t — he knew why.” Ducks into his shoulders a little; slowly lifts his eyes to meet with yours as you find his jaw, stroke a thumb along it. “Went to see Curt instead. Talked a little. Shared with the group.” Lifts a brow at that, shares your crooked smile as he makes a face at the phrase. “Decided I’d rather call you.”

Little bird-tilt of your head; the one that makes him want to eat you up, growling as he does so. “Took your time calling me.” Straighten up a little, thumb running the line of his jaw, light exploding in your eyes to see him shiver at your touch. “Month or two since that night you said goodbye… where you been, Frankie?”

 _That night_. Painted ponies, smashed glass, cracked mirrors, curly-haired kid screaming as the gunshots rang out. Blood in his eyes, venom in his heart. _Dying’s easy_. Half-growled, half-groaned, the words scratching at his throat like fingertips dragging through sand. _You’re gonna learn about pain_ — _you’re gonna learn about loss_. Blood pouring through his fingers as he bound up that bullet-wound on Madani’s head, curly-haired kid not screaming anymore, just silent, wrapped up in her boyfriend’s arms, _safe_. Fuck, all he’d wanted in that moment — bloody fingers, bruised face, busted lips, broken heart — all he’d wanted was _you_.

“I’m here,” you say softly, as if you hear him, as if you _know_. “Baby, I’m here.”

“Wanted to call sooner,” he grumbles, frowning to hide all the heartache, the goddamn hurt wrenching at his ribs. “Wanted to go to you — but needed to keep you _safe_ , too.” Fingers playing with the hem of your hoodie, slipping to stroke at the bare skin beneath; heart jumping as you give a little whimper. “Had to stay away… but I missed you. _Fuck_ , I missed you.”

Like kids — young lovers in the springtime — the way you grapple at each other now, swept up to frenzy sudden as a storm. Fingers in your hair, jagging your head back, his lips chasing shapes onto your throat, tongue an inferno along your jaw as he sweeps back up to swallow the sound slipping past your lips with his mouth.

He’s _hungry_.

So fucking hungry it hurts.

Balled you up into his arms, feet scissoring for a moment before you wrap your legs round his hips, hands finding grip at his shoulder, his nape as he carries you away from the river’s edge, pushes you up against his wall in the shadows.

Your hands pulling at his belt, his sliding beneath the waistband of your yoga pants. Hot and hard and heavy and hungry, the way you’re both moving. Filthy whispers, flaming eyes, a moan rolling from your throat — so long and sweet and deep he _feels_ it in his belly — as he cups the heat of you in his palm, slips a finger up inside you, stretches a second, bites his lip as you pulse on him, rock your head back against the bricks, eyes hazy on his own. Crooks: up, out.

“ _Frank_.”

“You like that, baby girl?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Yeah? You missed that, girlie?”

“Mmm — _yes_ , baby. Yes, yes, _yes_.”

“Fuck. Goddamn, girlie. I missed _you_.”

Working you — hard, fast — his thumb on your clit, fingers scissoring a tune that makes you sag and slip, all your weight held up by the easy strength of his arms, his body, the hard mountain-range of his belly, the bricks behind. Moaning, fingers scrabbling at his zipper — but he stops you with a grunt, a grumbly smile.

“Got company,” he says — and you frown.

Then you hear it, see it. Hiss, frustrated.

Dappled lights, footsteps nearing, laughter getting a little louder. The haze lifts from you quick as the breeze blowing smoke off the river.

Gives you one last roll with his thumb, one last — achingly slow — crook of his fingers, then he’s straightening your waistband, hand moving to curl round the small of your back as he lowers you to the ground. Frown on your brow, hood back up before he can blink, your fingers laced through his own.

He can only smile at your back as you lead him away from the salt and smoke of the Hudson, back up the sidewalks and starlit avenues.

Still, he thinks up a little thanks to the prayer he sank with that burner phone in the river — a name, _your_ name breaking from his lips in a whisper now as you keep your grip on his hand, guide him home from every bit of hell that haunts him. Let him flee his demons for one more night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> I have just re-watched Season 1 hence my foray back into Frankie fiction. Also made a little pic-set. Whoever may be here, I hope you enjoyed this little piece. Let me know if so; I **always** reply to comments. ❤️


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